


In Love And War

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Sex, First Time, Frottage, Gay Chicken, Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Season/Series 11, Sibling Incest, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: After everything they've been through together, Sam decides it's time to cross that last line.Dean, as it turns out, needs some persuading.Artwork by millygal





	In Love And War

**Author's Note:**

> Entry for the 2018 Wincest Reverse Bang. 
> 
> Huge shout-out to millygal for creating the beautiful piece that originally caught my eye, all the extras, and for putting up with my disappearing act. I'm terrible at working with others, but she persevered. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback gives me crow's feet - in a good way!

[See all the beautiful art here](https://milly-gal.livejournal.com/2017974.html)

When Sam comes into the Bunker’s kitchen, Dean is at the stove, singing softly under his breath and poking carefully at a skillet of scrambled eggs.

Sam’s bare feet don’t make any noise, but Dean turns sharply anyways and Sam takes a second to marvel, as always, at how attuned Dean is to his presence.

Dean points a finger at him. “Bacon?” Before Sam can reply, Dean nods, flips the finger to a thumbs up. “Bacon,” he confirms, stirring the eggs again before heading to the fridge to retrieve the package of bacon.  

Before he can make it back to the stove with the bacon, Sam drops his bomb. “Dean, I think we should have sex.”

Dean stumbles and actually splutters in disbelief, which is something Sam’s only read in books until this moment. The bacon slips from his suddenly slack hand to the floor, a few lost strips flopping out of the plastic.

“Together. With each other,” Sam clarifies.

“You _what?_ ” Dean demands, staring at Sam with a look Sam can safely say he’s never seen on his brother’s face before; he’s got eyes wider than Sam would have previously thought physically capable and a seemingly unconscious working of his lips, like Dean’s trying to form more words but can’t make the connection between brain and mouth.

Sam waits for a bit, until Dean has recovered enough to give a dismayed squawk at the sight of his precious bacon on the floor. He stoops to retrieve the package, shooting a glare at Sam as he carries it over to the sink. Sam makes a face. “Man, just throw them out!”

“I’m not throwing out perfectly good bacon!” Dean argues.

“It’s not perfectly good! It’s floor bacon!”

“And whose fault is that?” Dean snaps, rinsing the lost strips under warm water and then carefully patting them dry with a paper towel. “You can’t throw something like that at a man carrying precious cargo! What if I’d been holding a baby?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Why would you be holding a baby?”

“I was holding a baby not three months ago,” Dean points out, laying the bacon strips in the pan and jumping back as they hiss and smoke, water droplets dancing around the heated surface. “It’s not a common occurrence, but it does happen.”

“Whatever,” Sam says dismissively. “Obviously, you’d just rinse the baby off.”

Dean doesn’t dignify that one with a response. He’s intent on his bacon now, studiously avoiding Sam’s original statement. Sam gives him a minute or two, then - “Well?”

“‘Well’ what, Sam?” Dean doesn’t turn, just carefully flips the bacon strips with delicate precision.

“Nothing to say?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “I’m writing it off as a seizure or something. Momentary insanity. If I acknowledge it, it’ll encourage you.”

Sam comes up behind Dean, sees his body tense as he feels Sam approaching. “Dean,” he says, softer now, and watches the lines of Dean’s shoulders rise higher. “I meant it. I think we should have sex.”

“Why.” It’s so flatly put that Sam can’t even put a question mark in the writing in his mind’s eye. He goes on doggedly, the slightest bit emboldened by the fact that Dean isn’t outright saying no. “I want to. You do, too.”

“Do I.” Still nothing interrogative about the sentence, but Sam just powers through. “I know you do. We’ve wasted enough time, Dean. We’re ass-deep in yet another Apocalypse and who knows how it’ll turn out this time.” He takes another step in and Dean’s shoulders are hovering somewhere around his ears. Sam speaks over the sound of sizzling bacon. “We both want it. I’m trying to be practical about it.”

Dean extracts the bacon from the frying pan, laying the strips onto the waiting plate. He turns the burner off and sets the pan aside, dropping the spatula in it with a metallic clang that rings out in the sudden silence.

He turns so suddenly that Sam takes a half step backwards. Dean’s face is shuttered, blank, and when he speaks his voice is measured and calm. “You don’t know what I want, Sam.”

He sidesteps Sam neatly, stalking out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. Sam sighs and picks up a piece of bacon, chewing in contemplation. The whole thing could have gone much worse, he knows, and despite the reaction - or lack thereof - from Dean, he’s feeling a bit more brave. Five years ago, Dean would have thrown a punch. He’s come a long way. They both have, which is why Sam is embarking on this journey now. He meant what he’d said; they’d wasted so much time trying to ignore everything, so many years. And world-ending threat of the Darkness aside, they were in a better place with each other than they had been in years.

He _knows_ he isn’t reading the situation wrong; knows it down in his soul. But he also knows how damned stubborn Dean can be, knows how Dean feels that he doesn’t deserve the things he desires, knows that Dean will never make the first move. Knows that Dean will resist him because he’s just as much a big brother as ever, because he’ll think that he’s done something wrong, corrupted Sam in some awful way because he wasn’t able to hide his feelings well enough. Sam knows all this. He’s just got to get through to Dean, push past all the self-denial and guilt, and he won’t get there by being subtle.

It’s time to up the ante.

* * *

Sam has been a little brother for thirty years and if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s get under Dean’s skin.

But he’s also got to get Dean in the right headspace to accept the fact that they both want to have an incestous homosexual relationship, and he can’t accomplish that just by being a bratty little brother. He’s got to do it the right way.

He starts out simple and signs Dean up for a few premium gay porn sites with one of their fake credit cards. Dean responds by setting the background on Sam’s laptop to very graphic screenshots - all taken from the same one site, Sam notes. He puts this one in the win category.

This goes on for a few weeks before Sam changes the password on his computer. Dean doesn’t cook him breakfast for two weeks as punishment.

A little while later, they’re on a case in just outside Chicago. They’ve just snuck out of the second victim’s apartment, heading up the street when they pass a male strip club. Sam pauses, eyeing the insanely jacked guy on the poster. Dean looks back to see what he’s doing, and a frown darkens his face. Sam jerks his head at the door, flashing lights illuminating his face. “I dare you to get a lap dance.”

Dean’s still frowning, but he doesn’t sigh or roll his eyes. “Payoff?”

Sam considers. “I’ll do the laundry for the month.”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “All of it?” He abhors laundry.

“All of it. Sheets, towels, all the stuff covered in blood. Folded and everything.”

“Put away?”

Sam snorts. “Don’t get too ambitious.”

Dean tilts his head, and a gleam comes to life in his eyes. Sam knows that gleam.

“Sold.” Dean strides back to Sam, passing him and pulling open the door of the club.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sam is seated at a small booth, a heavy glass of whisky weighting his hands in a comfortable way. Fifteen feet across the club, Dean’s sitting in a similar booth, his own whisky emptied in a quick gulp and a tall, ripped guy with raven hair and a tattoo covering his left pec, shoulder, and arm that Sam can’t decide if he finds cool or douchey leaning over the table, speaking into Dean’s ear. Sam can’t see the guy’s face, but his ass, clad in silver spandex shorts that cling like a second skin, is _fantastic_.

Whatever Dean and the stripper are discussing must go well, because the guy climbs aboard Dean like a kid with a mall Santa Claus. Sam blinks, a bit surprised that this is actually happening.

It may be a man in his lap, but Dean knows strip club rules better than he knows exorcisms, and rule number one is always the same: no touching the strippers. His hands are resting on the faux leather bench on either side of his thighs, curled into loose fists.

But the rules go out the window when the guy picks up Dean's hands and puts them on his trim waist.

Permission granted, Dean comes alive under the stripper's body. His legs spread just a little, forcing the other man's straddle over him just a bit wider, and his hands slide up to tease over the guy's ribs before smoothing back down until those thick fingers are stroking over muscular legs. Sam's thigh muscles flex unconsciously as he imagines that same touch.

Dean gets a double handful of the stripper's tight ass and the guy throws his head back. Even from this far, Sam can see his lashes flutter. Sam swallows hard, his mouth dry.

His view is suddenly obscured by a bare torso, abs rippling under tan skin. Sam forces his eyes up.

The stripper is looking down at him from hooded eyes. He's gorgeous: short-cropped white-blonde hair, ice-blue eyes glinting in the dim light, a toothpaste ad smile. His voice, when he speaks, is lower than Sam is expecting. “You're too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

He shifts slightly, moving his weight to one leg and cocking his hip, and Sam can see a bit of Dean again; or he could, if Dean's stripper wasn't blanketed over him, close enough that Dean's arms are wrapped almost all the way around him. Sam drags his eyes back to the man standing in front of him, waiting patiently.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, because why the fuck not? The guy grins, white flash of teeth in the dark and climbs aboard. Sam lets his arms go limp, assuming the same position Dean had, but the guys in this club don't seem to have the same issues with touching that female strippers do, and the stripper takes his hands.

“You'll never make him jealous if you don't handle the merchandise,” he says low in Sam's ear. Sam jerks back in surprise and the stripper chuckles. “Your boy over there with Cam,” he says, flicking his head back toward Dean and the other stripper. Sam refuses to look. The stripper goes on. “I saw you watching him. You two got something serious gnawing your insides.” He tilts his head, smile dazzling. “Tip me well and I'll help you out with that.”

Sam nods helplessly, caught in the current now. This guy's cocky attitude reminds him of Dean and it's getting to him, dick stirring in his jeans. The stripper wiggles against Sam's hips and his eyes widen. “Oh, baby, I'm really sad you're so caught up in that boy,” he purrs, “‘cause it feels like you got a lot to work with.” He bounces a few times, still holding Sam's hands, which he places on his waist in the same way Cam had done with Dean.

Sam groans and spreads his fingers, spanning the stripper's torso. The other man leans in. “I'm Dan, by the way.”

It's so close Sam knows he could get away with gasping his brother's name, but Dan writhes on top of him and most of his brain goes blank. He retains enough to get a better grip on Dan's slim waist and lift him up, spinning him around until he's facing the other way.

Dan laughs, low and dark. “Want me to watch them, huh?” he says knowingly. Sam skates one hand over the stripper's chest, plucking at one pink nipple.

“Get him to look over here,” he says roughly, “and I'll make it worth your time.”

“Done,” Dan says, a little breathless from Sam's fingers pulling and twisting his nipple. He whistles once, sharp over the music, and Sam sees the stripper in Dean's lap twist around at the sound.

Whatever further communication there is between the two dancers is silent and motionless, as far as Sam can tell, but he does see Cam grin and nod once. As Sam watches, Cam shifts to one side so Dean has a clear line of sight to where Dan is grinding his firm ass against Sam's lap.

Dean's eyes widen enough that Sam can see it, across fifteen feet of dark club. Cam whispers something in Dean's ear. There’s a glimmer of white teeth when Dean bites his lip, digging into plump flesh.

Sam feels the growl before he hears it, rumbling up out of his chest. In his lap, Dan gives a throaty moan in reply. “Does it turn you on, seeing him like that?” he says, thrusting his hips back into Sam’s. “Seeing him fall apart under someone else’s hands? Are you thinking about how well he’d fall apart under your own?”

Fingers still pulling at the same nipple, Sam pitches forward, gets his teeth in the cords of Dan’s neck. He does it without thinking, without any worry that he’s crossing a line, and when Dan mewls appreciatively, chest heaving under Sam’s hands, Sam bites down a little harder. “That’s it,” Dan breathes. “You can be rough with him. He looks like he can take it. Like he’d love it, feeling your teeth in his skin, marking him up. He’s already all yours, but that way, _everyone_ could see it.”

Across the space, Dean’s hands have slipped down beneath the waistband of Cam’s shorts, clenching the perfect rounds of the stripper’s ass. Sam whimpers around his mouthful of Dan’s neck, helplessly imagining Dean’s hands on his own body just like that. Cam is writhing in Dean’s touch, shoulders heaving with heavy pants as he squirms on Dean’s lap.

Dan goes on, fighting through his own breath gone harsh. “He’d be putty in your hands, baby. Do anything you want. He’d let you take the lead, or he’d take it himself, whichever way pleases you best. He adores you, wants to do everything he can for you.” He tips his head back, twisting to whisper in Sam’s ear. “He just needs a push.”

Sam grabs Dan’s hips hard, his fingers digging in, pushing him down as he grinds up into the stripper’s plush ass. “Just like that, baby,” Dan hisses, doing his share and working his hips in tight circles. “Just think of all the ways you can wreck him. Imagine your mouth around his cock. Think of how he’d scream with your tongue buried in his ass.” He snatches up Sam’s hand from its grasp on his hip, plants it down over his crotch where his dick is straining against his cutoff jean shorts. Sam rubs over the hard flesh and Dan sighs.

Over Cam’s shoulder, Dean can see Sam working Dan through the denim and his eyes flash, dark and dangerous. His own hand jerks suddenly under the back of Cam’s shorts, twisting, and when Cam goes still and then begins to shove backward against Dean’s hand, Sam knows that Dean’s slipped a finger into the stripper’s hole. “Fuck,” he grunts into Dan’s shoulder, squeezing the other man’s cock harder and feeling his own body clench, imagining Dean’s hands on him, _in_ him.

Another minute or two and Cam stiffens over Dean, body going tight, save for the rhythmic thrusts of his hips, and Sam sees Cam’s fingers digging hard into the meat of Dean’s shoulders, going white at the knuckles as he comes in Dean’s lap, before slumping down bonelessly.

“Jesus Christ,” Dan mutters, echoing Sam’s thoughts, and they both watch as Dean pats Cam’s thigh, gentle, urging the other man to slide off his lap so he can stand. Without looking over at Sam and Dan, Dean makes his way toward the men’s room.

Sam knows full well that Dean is in there jerking off and the image makes him groan, grinding up hard into Dan’s ass, seeking his own release.

Cam has recovered enough to stalk across the club toward them. He stands between their spread legs, leaning down to cover Sam’s hand on Dan’s straining dick and rub along with his fingers. He moves in closer, catching Sam’s lips with his own and Sam tastes the whisky Dean had been drinking. The flavour is enough to push him over the edge, shoving against Dan’s body until he comes in his jeans, wet and sticky. Dimly, through the haze of orgasm, he feels Cam pulling his hand so that they bring Dan off together, leaving the stripper panting in Sam’s damp lap.

Sam lifts his head from Dan’s sweaty shoulder, breathing hard. As Dan clambers off him, Sam reaches into his wallet, withdrawing enough cash to cover both himself and Dean.

Dan accepts the wad of bills with a lazy smirk, tucking it into his back pocket without counting it. “You boys from around here?” he asks, leaning hard against Cam’s side.

Sam shakes his head. Dan laughs wryly. “Probably for the best,” he says. “You’d be the death of us.”

“Both of you,” Cam adds, and his voice is soft and sweet, almost boyish. He lifts his chin, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “He’s waiting for you.”

Sam manages to stand, turning to see Dean standing at the door, arms crossed over his chest and face carefully blank. Sam gives the strippers a tight nod and hurries across the club, following his brother out into the night.

* * *

The incident at the strip club doesn’t have the effect Sam was hoping for. Instead, it does the opposite.

Dean is quiet, withdrawn. Despite Sam’s obvious loss of their bet, Dean makes a point to do his own laundry. He does, Sam notes, leave everything else.

The strip club got out of hand, Sam knows. He doesn’t regret it, not really, but it’s made things awkward; much more than his morning announcement that he wanted them to bang. Not only that, but now that Sam’s seen his brother with another man, seen him fingerfuck a guy, seen him hot and panting and _wanting_ \- well, it’s only ratcheted up the intensity of his fantasies, to the point where he pops a boner any time he and Dean are in the same room. It’s like being fifteen all over again, and Sam hadn’t enjoyed it very much the first time around.

So he takes a break for a bit, leaves it alone for a few weeks.

Then he goes to a gay bar a few towns over and writes Dean’s name and number on the bathroom stall, along with a fairly provocative invitation.

Nothing happens for a few days, until he comes into the War Room one afternoon to hear the tail end of what he’s sure was an interesting conversation.

“Look, I don’t know where you got this number, but I am not down for any of - that,” Dean barks into the phone. He ends the call, looking murderously down at the phone.

Sam sinks into his chair, sips his coffee. “Wrong number?” he asks blandly. Dean makes a face. “Man, I’ve been getting some really weird calls lately.”

Sam snickers into his cup. Out loud, he suggests, “Maybe switch to one of the burners?”

“Everyone we know has this number,” Dean complains. “What if Cas calls? Or Jody?”

“So? Tell them you’ve switched numbers. It’s not that big of a deal, Dean.”

“I _like_ this number,” Dean whines, looking a half-step away from stomping his foot. “I like how it sounds. And I’ve memorized it.”

“So then put up with the booty calls,” Sam says, no need to work hard to fake exasperation. “You big baby.”

Dean goes stock still. Tilts his head and looks at Sam. Sam’s seen that look before, usually levelled at whatever thing they’re hunting at the time. It’s calculating and predatory. He suppresses a shiver.

“I never said booty calls,” Dean says slowly. “I just said weird calls.”

Shit. Busted. Sam lets his eyes go wide, innocent. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

Dean takes a step toward him. “What did you do?”

Sam stands - sits? - his ground, looking up at Dean. “I didn’t do anything.”

Another step and Dean is towering over him. He reaches out and very gently pulls Sam’s coffee mug from his hand, setting it down on the table. “What,” he says again, voice dark and dangerous, sliding into Sam’s ears, “did you do?”

“I - ” The air suddenly feels very thin and Sam’s lungs don’t seem to be working properly. He gulps and finds his nerve. “I wrote your number in a bathroom stall.”

Dean leans in, putting his hands on the arms of the chair, until their faces are only inches apart. “Where?” he says. Sam swallows hard.

“In a gay bar.” He lifts his chin with defiance he doesn’t really feel, not with Dean’s eyes boring holes into him the way they are, and steels himself for a blow.

It doesn’t come. Dean looks puzzled. “Where’d you find a gay bar?”

Sam’s not expecting the question. It takes him a few seconds. “Uh, there’s one a few towns over.”

“Huh.”

They stare at each other, silent.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” Dean sighs. Sam grits his teeth.

“I - I just thought that it would - we deserve - you _know_ that - ”

Dean’s lips quirk. “If you backpedal any faster, you’ll be in reverse.” He sounds more amused than mad and Sam’s heart leaps.

“Answer me one thing, Sam.” There’s something soft in Dean’s eyes, and Sam knows that whatever will happen next depends on Dean’s question - and his answer. He nods, not trusting his voice.

“Why now?” Dean reaches out, feathers his fingers over Sam’s forehead, over the lines Sam secretly worries about, the ones etching themselves deeper and deeper each passing year. “Why, after all this time?”

Sam’s hand shakes when he returns the touch, rubs his thumb gently, so gently, over the creases at the corner of Dean’s eye, over the evidence that no matter how horrible their life gets, there are still things to smile and laugh about. “Don’t we deserve something good?” he says, quiet and careworn and damnit, he wanted this to be light and fun, or else rough and hot, but nothing’s working out the way he wanted, only Dean’s hand is warm on his face and maybe this will end up okay. “This one thing?”

Dean frowns slightly. “It’s not gonna solve anything, Sam. Amara, the world ending - it’ll all still be there.”

“It’s not about solving anything,” Sam counters, and he dares to cover Dean’s hand that’s still on the arms of the chair with his own, stroking gently over scarred knuckles. “It’s about doing something for ourselves, for once in our craptastic lives. Doing something for _us._ ”

There’s so much swirling in Dean’s eyes, so many emotions in those green pools Sam’s been looking into his whole life: love, fear, hesitation, want. Then, without warning, Dean’s leaning in and brushing his lips, feather-light, against Sam’s, and Sam feels his heart seize.

“For us, huh?” Dean murmurs, drawing back just a fraction, so he can take in Sam’s wide eyes. “I guess I can get behind that.”

He closes the gap between them once more, mouth firm and sure on Sam’s, and Sam’s head is spinning, his world shattering around him - in a good way, for once. He gasps against Dean’s lips, can’t help it, and Dean’s talking now, in between kisses growing more and more fevered. “I gotcha, Sam, I gotcha.”

“Dean - ” He pours years worth of love and need and frustration into his brother’s name and Dean surges forward, climbs onto Sam until he’s straddling him, the chair creaking under them, but it’s good solid wood and it’ll take their weight.

Sam is panting, can’t wrap his head around the fact that this is actually happening, and he lets his head fall back as Dean buries his face in Sam’s neck, gets his teeth into the spot just behind Sam’s ear. “Shit,” he hisses, and feels Dean’s mouth curve in a grin against his skin.

He feels Dean push against him, groin to groin, hard heat insistent and inexorable. “Oh, fuck.”

“Gotta potty mouth there, Sammy,” Dean chides, lips still on Sam’s throat even as his hand snakes up under Sam’s shirt to pinch ruthlessly at one tight nipple.

Sam twitches, shoves up hard into Dean’s body. “ _Fuck_ , Dean.” He puts his hands on Dean’s hips, pulling him down and thrusting up again.

Dean shudders above him. “Sammy, goddamnit. Won’t last if you keep that up.”

The quaver in his voice is music to Sam’s ears. “Doesn’t matter,” he grits out, fingers on Dean’s belt, struggling with the leather. “Always next time.”

Dean groans, throaty and deep, and his own hands make quick work of Sam’s belt, ripping open his jeans and pulling his dick, heavy and thick, out of his underwear. “Damn it, Sam, get the lead out,” he grumbles, knocking his brother’s fumbling hands out of the way, pulling at his clothes until he’s free, dick red and slick with precome.

Sam feels all the air leave his lungs at the sight of them, flushed and blood-warm against each other. He scrapes together enough brain cells to wrap his long fingers around them both, pulling their weeping dicks close enough so he can jack them together, sliding hot and wet against each other. Dean’s moan is like a drug - all he wants is more.

They thrust together into the clasp of Sam’s hand; the chair creaks warningly, but the sound is lost under their mingled gasps and muttered curses.

Dean pitches forward, lips searing on Sam’s neck, and Sam whimpers, he knows it, but he can’t care. It’s too much, too good; he’s drowning in sensation and God, he knew it would be like this, but he still can’t believe it.

All too soon, he feels his balls draw up tight, knows it’s all over. “Gonna come, Dean,” he hisses into Dean’s ear, and Dean growls in response. “Gonna come all over you, big brother.”

“Oh, holy fuck,” Dean says tightly, and bites down on the join of Sam’s neck and shoulder, and that’s it, Sam’s done for, spilling hot and hard over his fingers, over Dean’s cock hard against his own.

He swims up from under the rush of pleasure to find Dean still thrusting into the now-limp clutch of his fingers, words falling from Dean’s lips. “Sammy, fuck, came so good for me, so hot…”

Sam tightens his hand again, now that he’s regained brain function, gives Dean the squeeze and friction he needs. “C’mon, Dean, give it to me.”

Dean moans long and low as he goes still, muscles quivering, spurting between the spaces of Sam’s fist. He’s loud when he comes, grunting with each jerk of his hips, but Sam already knows this is how it would be, knows how Dean sounds when he’s caught in the torrent of release, and it should be weird but it’s not, it’s just _right_.

Dean goes boneless on top of him, still twitching with the occasional aftershock. Sam tongues at the closest piece of Dean he can get to - an ear, tracing the shell with his mouth, and keeps squeezing his hand around their dicks, until Dean mutters something barely English and shoves his hand away from too-sensitive flesh.

“You weigh a ton,” Sam says conversationally, not because Dean’s weight is actually bothering him, but just because he’s a little brother and that’s what he does, and he’s suddenly feeling the need to reassure them both that everything is still fine, that this hasn’t changed them in ways they can't recover from.

“Your face weighs a ton,” Dean groans, not moving, and Sam’s heart leaps.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You don’t make any sense.” Dean shakes himself and climbs off Sam, wrinkling his nose at the sticky mess covering them. “Good thing you’re still doing all the laundry.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, trying to stand without making even more of a mess.

“Bitch,” Dean returns out of habit, and his eyes are warm and crinkled in the corners where he’s grinning, and Sam knows, sudden and without question, that they’ll be okay.

Apocalypses and other bullshit aside, he and Dean will be okay.  

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [WincestReverseBang Artpost - In Love and War. - by SinnamonSpider](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975702) by [millygal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal)




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